


Anchor

by violinbythefire



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcohol Withdrawal, Anxiety, Bisexuality, Depression, Drug Withdrawal, F/F, F/M, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Insecurity, Jealousy, Mental Breakdown, Mental Instability, Panic Attacks, Recovery, Religious Fanaticism, Religious Guilt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-11-28 13:44:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11419215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violinbythefire/pseuds/violinbythefire
Summary: Dorian finds Maxwell fascinating from his white hair to his rigid faith. He thought that their similarities ended with their noble upbringing and their magical abilities. After discovering that they handle their problems in a near identical manner, their friendship blossoms. Drinking alone can be so depressing. And quite honestly, he was doing a service. Maxwell needs something to take the edge off.





	1. Self Medication

Dorian was starting to lose focus. He could not tell if it was from eye strain or from the alcohol. At this point, he didn’t care. He had stopped himself from drinking out of the bottle. Instead, he had poured himself goblets of wine like a civilized, functional alcoholic. Like Mother. There was nothing like drinking yourself into a stupor while reading light drivel in the library. It prevented Dorian from over thinking about what had happened that day. He brought his goblet to his lips only to find that there was barely a gulp left. He murmured under his breath before grabbing the bottle of Orlesian wine next to him. He poured himself another glass, watching as the dark liquid sloshed in the goblet. The liquid fell out before becoming soft drips into the glass. Dorian looked at the bottle, studying it for a while before realizing that after he finished this drink, he would have consumed a bottle of wine. Surely not impressive considering how much The Iron Bull could drink in one sitting. But there was something almost shameful when Dorian realized how much he drank alone in the middle of the night. What was worse was the need to find out where more could possibly be. 

He got up from the chair, his legs shaking from either sitting too long or from the lack of balance. Dorian hoped it was the former. He picked up the goblet and drank the wine as quickly as he could before setting it back down on the end table. Once he was back on his feet, it was simple to leave his alcove. The darkness surrounding him would be the next problem. It must truly be late in Skyhold if even Leliana’s candles were out. She worked late into the night and he could always count on the candles from the third floor to illuminate his way out on late nights. He opened his left palm and casted a simple spell to allow a fist size ball of fire to form over his palm. The light was enough to light up a few feet around him. With his sight returned, Dorian made the journey downstairs.

Part of him questioned whether this was an intelligent idea or not. Dorian countered that he had a particularly stressful day and he was allowed to drink more than usual. It wasn’t every day that you were able to confront your father in some dirty bar in the backwoods of Thedas. He should be allowed a little leeway. He walked each step carefully down the spiral stairwell until he reached where Solas commonly settled. He could not sense the man and he was grateful. Quickly, he went through the door and made his way into the great hall. 

There was part of Dorian that was still surprised that their scrappy team was now part of something of importance. He remembered the first time that he saw Maxwell in Redcliffe. The first thing he noticed was the stark white of the human’s hair. He had not seen it before in a man so young. His tawny skin, several shades lighter than Dorian’s own, seemed to glow as he activated what would later be known as the Anchor in his hand. The glow made the green in his eyes seem even more diluted. He was a nervous Circle mage that Dorian was fascinated with. His religious fervor was an interesting quirk as well. He seemed to genuinely believe that he was sent by Andraste. Dorian was as much a believer as the next man, but it was like what Sera said. 

Believing was different than seeing. Religious physical manifestations were never fun. 

It was strange that the person that he was thinking of ended up being the person he would run into almost two hours after midnight. He could see in the dim lighting of the Great Hall that Maxwell was lounging in his throne. Maxwell, who never lounged out of all things, had his legs thrown over one arm and his back leaning against the other. He could also see the identical twin bottle of wine by the throne. Dorian raised his eyebrow in surprise. While Maxwell never said no to a drink, Dorian never figured him for the drinking alone in the dark type. Not like him. And it was far past Maxwell’s self-imposed curfew. Years of rigid scheduling were hard habits to break. The Maxwell he knew went to his chambers near ten o’clock and woke at six in the morning without fail. 

“Hello Dorian,” Maxwell called out as he picked up the wine bottle. Dorian watched in abject shock as the man put the bottle’s opening to his lips to finish up what was left in the bottle. 

“Hello Maxwell,” He greeted back before walking up to the man, noting that here was another bottle by the chair as well. “What are you doing up so late?” He asked, knowing that the man would spin the same question on him.

“I couldn’t sleep. And I realize that I could leave my room if I wanted to. Nice isn’t it? I could leave my room if I wanted to. I don’t have to stay there. I could leave and go to another room. Walk around, clear my head,” Maxwell said, shaking the bottle over his open mouth to catch drops of alcohol. 

“Lightweight,” Dorian teased the man before going to take the bottle of alcohol from him. Who knew that Maxwell could be a rambling drunk? 

“What are you doing up? It’s got to be hours after midnight,” Maxwell asked as he tried to grab the bottle from Dorian. 

“I’m looking for more alcohol but I see now that you’ve taken it all,” He said, pointing out the extra bottle by the throne.

“Is this because of your father? You ought not to do things like that. Drinking because of bad things,” Maxwell said, making Dorian’s eyes roll. He was definitely not in the mood to be lectured by some isolated mage on how he needed to conduct his business. 

“And you decided to drink instead of taking a sleeping draught because…” Dorian trailed off. Maxwell’s hand dropped to his side and his eyes gazed up at the ceiling. 

“I wonder if my father would do something like that,” Maxwell stated, shrugging his shoulders. Maxwell was not overly emotional nor did he show his inner thoughts on his face. Dorian set the empty wine bottle on floor, giving the man time to elaborate on what he meant. “Then I thought that my father would not lift a finger if I was dying in the street.” The words were harsh and he halted his speech on every other word. 

Maxwell had not mentioned his family to the point that Dorian forgot that he even had one. Intellectually he knew that Maxwell had a mother and a father of some sort but it seemed that Maxwell had a similar estrangement. He did not sound bitter about the relationships. While Dorian brewed in his resentment, Maxwell only stated the words sadly. Dorian thought back to how Maxwell initially encouraged Dorian to reconnect with his family. He took time out of his schedule to personally escort Dorian to the tavern in Redcliffe. But as with all things, the moment that blood magic was mentioned, Maxwell all but stood between the two. Up until that point, Maxwell was advocating for the reunion. 

“Would you like to have your father use blood magic on you?” Dorian asked, not understanding what Maxwell was talking about. His voice was clipped, wondering what the explanation could possibly be.

“If that was how he showed his interest in me…” Maxwell shrugged his shoulders before leaning down to pick up the full bottle of wine. He took out the cork with ease, the blue spark at his fingertips indicating that he used magic to help the process along. The cork was tossed to the side as though it as little more than unless trash. He put the bottle to his lips and started to drink. A few awkward seconds passed before Maxwell finally put the bottle down. He licked his lips before raising the bottle in the air, “My father…” He started with a grand tone in his voice, “I haven’t even gotten a letter from my father since I was taken to the Circle. I thought maybe after the Conclave…I wasn’t expecting ‘I hope you are well after nearly dying’. That would…” He hiccupped loudly, something that made Dorian flinch at the unexpected sound, “That would indicate that he cared about my wellbeing. I thought maybe I would get an ‘I’m happy that despite your condition you’ve achieved something’. Nope…” He took a sip this time, “I could unite Thedas under one flag, become its king, and my father still wouldn’t give a damn.” He gave a harsh laugh, “My sister though! After I lost my title, my father worshipped the ground she walked on. She…” He trailed off and looked at Dorian as though he noticed he was there for the first time. 

It was in that moment that it appeared that the blood in Maxwell’s face disappeared. He looked away from Dorian and said, “I am dreadfully sorry. I didn’t mean to…” His hand holding the bottle was shaking and Dorian quickly went to take it out of his hand before he dropped it on the floor. 

“Shouldn’t have been drinking. Should have just gone to the shrine,” Maxwell was mumbling to himself. Dorian knew what he was referring to. He knew that Maxwell often knelt in front of the Statue of Andraste daily when he was in Skyhold. He had always felt a twinge of guilt when he saw the man. He always felt that he should be more devout. But he would always remind himself of what good sitting and praying ever did anyone.

“Should have, would have, could have. That is what life is, my friend,” Dorian said as he gently set the bottle back down by the chair. Maxwell was in no condition to drink anymore. As much as he didn’t want to be anyone’s babysitter, he couldn’t leave Maxwell like this. “Maybe you should get to bed,” He said as he extended his now free hand to Maxwell. 

Maxwell took Dorian’s hand and lifted himself up from his chair. He stumbled forward, almost knocking into Dorian. It was only Dorian’s strong grip on Maxwell’s hand that Maxwell was able to stand up on his own two feet. “Thank you,” Maxwell said quietly. It seemed like his chatty mood had left him and in its wake was a somber drunk. How droll. 

“No matter. You’ve seen me at one of my worst moments. I get to see you drunk. It was a fair trade,” Dorian quipped as he took him to the stairs. He stated, more to fill the silence than to actually scold him, “I just hope that we don’t make a habit out of this. You’re lucky I walked in on you and not Mother Giselle or Maker forbid Cassandra. What made you want to start drinking in a common room?” He asked.

Maxwell bowed his head and Dorian wondered if it was out of shame or if it was so he could see where he was walking. “I was just thinking about being the Inquisitor. So I was just going to sit for a minute. Before I know it, it’s two in the morning and I’m being escorted back to my room like a wayward child.” There was a biting indignity in his voice that Dorian snorted at. They reached the stairs and he helped Maxwell take one after the other. The man was leaning on him now, his legs shaking with each step. Either he was truly inexperience with drinking heavily or the man had drunk more than the bottle on the floor. He had to be a lightweight. Maxwell had spent almost all of his life in the Circle before being tossed out on his ass after the Circles rebelled. He couldn’t have had that much experience with alcohol, much less being out on his own unsupervised. 

Barbaric, really.

They took the rest of the trip in silence. Dorian stopped in front of the door to Maxwell’s quarters and watched as the man fell against the wall. His hand turned at the knob and the door opened. He stumbled forward inside, shutting the door behind him with a loud slam.

“You’re welcome!” Dorian called after him before deciding that he should go to bed as well.


	2. Snowflakes

Dorian woke up feeling as though he had fallen off a cliff. He had not even opened his eyes and he knew that the world was an utterly cruel place and life was going to continuously take advantage of him. His head was pounding as though a hammer was tapping directly on his forehead. His stomach twisted as though it was fighting the alcohol he had consumed. He opened his eyes and was instantly met with a blinding ray of sun from the window across his room. “Lovely,” He remarked to himself. Even speaking caused him to wretch. This was going to be a great day.

After fixing himself something to ease his headache and nausea, Dorian cleaned himself up and got dressed. He wasn’t going to look like he had spent hours alone drinking. How common. He had perfected the art of hiding his actions since he was a young child. There was no way that someone could look at him and his perfectly styled hair without thinking that he somewhat had his life together.

Due to what he overheard at breakfast, Dorian found that he, apparently, needed to teach those lessons to Maxwell.

As Dorian grabbed some bread and fruit for breakfast, he had overheard the servants gossiping. Their respected leader was rumored to be currently throwing up over the railing on his balcony. One scolded the other about spreading lies about the Inquisitor. If Dorian had not been there that night to see Maxwell, he might have disbelieved the gossip as well. 

Maxwell was all but a demigod in the eyes of their Inquisition. He embraced the role of Andraste’s Herald with open arms even when he discovered the secular origins of the mark. He was a mage, but not a rogue one. It was no secret that he was working to try and have the Circle restored. (“It just makes sense to have a structured area in which mages learn and can be housed”) He played both sides of a debate easily, gaining favor with almost everyone he had ever met. There was no flaw that could inherently be found. 

It was later in the day when Dorian saw Maxwell again. He was hidden away in his alcove, deciding that limited social contact would be the easiest way to stave off another impending migraine. He had settled on alternating between reading easy literature and working on a new spell. Maxwell had asked him to become more acquainted with the healing aspects of magic. Dorian had originally mocked the request behind his back, but figured he could attempt to follow the order. 

“Are you free for the next week?” Maxwell asked without a greeting. Dorian turned to the direction of the voice. Maxwell was standing in the archway and he seemed put together as far as his clothing. His hair could have gone through more than a few strokes and he hadn’t shaved, but other than that, he looked normal.

“For you? Always,” Dorian said, answering before even finding about what precisely they were doing, who else would be coming and where they were going. 

Maxwell seemed to have noticed that as well. He raised his left eyebrow in a quizzical manner. He then said, his voice a slow drawl as he explained what the plan was, “I was going to see if you, Iron Bull and Sera were available. I had gotten reports about Venatori activity on the Storm Coast.” 

As much as Dorian would rather not be drenched for the next week, he would not pass up on any opportunity to kill the misguided countrymen. He nodded, prompting Maxwell to continue on. But it seemed that the cat had caught Maxwell’s tongue. “Is there something else?” Dorian asked, his eyes looking into his. 

“…I would appreciate it if you didn’t mention anything about last night to them. Or anyone, really,” Maxwell said, straightening his posture. He was trying his hardest to look as stern and professional as possible. Appearances were everything. 

Dorian chuckled, amused at the situation, “It isn’t me you should be talking with about this. I had to hear from a servant how you were sick this morning. You should have called for me. I could have brewed you up a draught, no problem.” He should not have laughed at how utterly mortified Maxwell look, but he couldn’t contain himself. Maxwell’s eyes widened to the size of saucers and he looked like he would love to be able to melt in the floor. 

“How did anyone see that?” Maxwell murmured under his breath before running his fingers through his hair. “It’ll be all over Skyhold by noon.”

Dorian waved his hand, hoping that he could alleviate Maxwell’s concern, “That rumor will die down before then. No one could believe that our local Chantry brother would ever do something as lewd.” He shifted in his stance, moving his fingers to his chin in thought, “However, if it were me, I would try to drink in a less public place next time and I would have a poultice ready for the morning.”

“There will be not be a next time. I feel like I’ve ran twenty miles without water,” Maxwell said, holding back a groan. He leaned his side against the archway of Dorian’s space, pressing his forehead on the hard material. Dorian could feel empathy well up inside him and he instantly felt the need to squish it back down inside him. 

“There will be a next time. Do try to have someone look after you. It’s clear that you need supervision,” He said, intending the remark as a joke. He could see Maxwell’s muscles in his arms and back tense up. 

“I don’t suppose that you’re offering up that role,” Maxwell finally said, straightening up.

“Well you could hardly ask Vivienne,” Dorian said, relieved that he didn’t offend Maxwell. But he honestly did not know what he could have said that could have offended him. “Or Mother Giselle.” If Dorian had to pick out who Maxwell liked the most (besides his obvious infatuation with the oblivious Josephine) it would be Vivienne and Mother Giselle. They both took to them like he was some orphan kitten in need of a warm home. Giselle was his spiritual mentor and Vivenne was his confidant. With the way that Maxwell consulted with Vivienne, a stranger would think that she was the one running the Inquisition. The only time he and Vivienne ever disagreed was when he welcomed the spirit, Cole, into the Inquisition with open arms. Dorian could remember Vivenne’s disapproving scowl and her passive aggressive words afterwards. 

Maxwell let out a small smile at that, shaking his head in agreement. “Thank you for your offer, but I don’t think that I will drink again for a long time.” He told Dorian when and where to meet him before they made the trek to the Storm Coast and left the man alone.

Dorian abandoned the fool’s errand of healing magic and grabbed one of his books on the history of diplomatic relationships with Tevinter. It was slightly less biased than the dreck he had been reading thus far. He had barely opened the book when he heard a soft whispering voice.

“So fast, I cannot catch them, like snowflakes in a blizzard, I’m being pulled in all directions, what have I done, what have I done, what have I done. Please don’t have Jospehine find out…”

“Cole!” Dorian let out something deeper than a yelp, but quieter than a yell. He turned to see the blonde haired young man perched on the open window. He was gazing in, his eyes barely concealed by the brim of his hat. He tilted his head in confusion at Dorian. “I thought we talked about scaring people like that,” Dorian said as he shut his book. What could the spirit want from him? Hopefully no more personal questions. Then again, if the spirit was going to pry into his insecurities, it was better that they were in private than out in a marketplace somewhere.

“I can’t hear him like I used to,” Cole pointed out as though Dorian was supposed to understand precisely what he was talking about. A few moments of silence finally forced Cole to further elaborate. He spoke to Dorian as though he was either a small child or a flighty Orlesian, “I can’t catch all of Maxwell’s thoughts. It was hard when I first came to help, but I could still hear him pray or think if I tried hard enough. I cannot help him if I cannot hear what bothers him.” He then stared at Dorian, obviously expecting him to offer a solution.

Dorian tried to figure out what Cole was talking about. But Cole was being particularly cryptic and he told him as much, “I did not know you were even helping him. Why don’t you try what you used to do with him?” 

“I talked to him yesterday when he couldn’t sleep. I told him about his thoughts being too quick. I could only catch that he was upset about you and your father. I tried to talk to him about his father. I made him angry. I didn’t mean to,” Cole remarked sheepishly, bowing his head in shame, “So I made him forget.” His shoulders slumped forward and he looked so positively pitiful that Dorian was tempted to pull him in for a hug. Cole then continued, raising his eyes once more.

“Maybe you should talk to Josephine about this,” Dorian remarked, almost stiffly when he spoke the name. He didn’t know why he was not particularly fond of the ambassador. She had done nothing wrong. It was Maxwell who stood outside of her door as though he was preparing himself to speak to her. Varric used to tease him about it, particularly the time that Maxwell stood outside for nearly twenty minutes and nearly strangled the bouquet in his hands. 

Cole tilted his head as he looked at Dorian, now more curious than concerned. “He paces each time as though this is the first time that he’s met her. Kaffas! Show some dignity…I wonder if he does the same when he approaches the library to see me…”

The thoughts had lingered to the back of his mind but it was not safe from the spirit. Dorian’s left hand gripped at the arm of his chair. “Cole,” He stated the name as a warning to let it go. He would not begin to hope. Wishful thinking was all he had.

Cole winced back like a puppy that has been caught chewing at the leg of an antique desk. “I’m sorry.”

He could not be angry with Cole for long. How could anyone? Vivienne, perhaps. “It’s not your fault. It’s what you do,” Dorian remarked. He had gotten used to his thoughts being made public at any given time when it came to Cole. He had tried to not let his mind wander. It was hard to do, especially on the endless journey from one area to the next. 

“Perhaps I can try to talk to him,” Dorian said, having the self-awareness to know that he would be a poor confidant in those matters. He had his own emotional nonsense to deal with and he more or less projected his own worries onto Maxwell. 

Cole looked relieved and he nodded, “Yes, good. You can talk to him. He would like that. He needs a friend who is like him.” And without a farewell, Cole disappeared from the alcove, leaving Dorian alone in his space. 

Someone should put a bell on him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for markantony who wanted to know what Maxwell looked like. I wasn't sure who I want to use for him as a face claim. If anyone has any ideas or suggestions, let me know. Again, thanks for reading!


	3. Waves

Dorian wondered how the Storm Coast would look if it would stop raining. He supposed it would not matter. The waves would still rock the coast and crash into the rocks. The terrain was just as rough and unforgiving without the rain.

He hated the sea. He despised the “fresh salt air” and the smell of fish and seaweed. He hated riding on large ships. It caused him to hole up in his cabin as though he was a recluse. It was only so he would not be throwing up over the side of the boat, mortifying himself in front of strangers. As long as no part of him was over or in any part of water, Dorian could stomach his discomfort. But even now as he stood adamantly on the beach, he could not help but be annoyed with Maxwell. 

Maxwell spent an unnecessary amount of time standing at the edge of the water, staring out into the sky. Sera was busying herself with searching the freshly killed corpses for loot. The Iron Bull was staring at the skyline as well, but Dorian figured it was for a reason. He was searching for a sign of the dragon that he had previously seen in the area. Dorian was not there for that venture, but Iron Bull had described her with enough detail that Dorian almost believed he had been there. Dorian covered himself with a cloak. It did little to shield him from the rain, especially as the wind decided to pick up. He had spent the day fighting Venatori and darkspawn up and down the coast. He was more than ready to go to the nearest Inquisition camp and get somewhere dry. He would also like to take a look at the ice burn on his arm. He had gotten hit with a stray stream of ice on his bare arm. The ice had latched onto his arm and burned his skin before Dorian could promptly remove it. At this point, his arm was almost white and his skin was hard to the touch. Maybe he should have spent more time working with healing spells. 

It wasn’t long before Iron Bull had looked away from the sky. And Sera had collected her fair share of shiny things. All eyes were on Maxwell. They hoped he could pick up on the nonverbal cues that they were ready to go on except Sera, who was not one for giving hints in lieu of speaking. “So….” Sera drawled out as she walked up to Maxwell, “What are we looking at here except gray, gray, and more gray? We should get to camp, yeah? Get Dorian’s arm checked out?” Dorian sent her a grateful look and she shrugged in response. He hadn’t mentioned it to anyone when the fighting was over but maybe she had seen it before he put on his cloak.

Maxwell turned to look at Sera with a flash of surprise in his eyes. Dorian wondered if Maxwell had forgotten they were there. “Oh, sorry, I just lost track of time,” He took one last look at the horizon before he took the lead, leaving the beachside. He approached Dorian and moved the thick fabric of the cloak out of his way, taking a look at his arm. Dorian couldn’t feel Maxwell’s hand as it ran up and down his arm. “Can you move it?” Maxwell asked. 

Dorian raised his arm, but it worried him how much effort he needed in order to wiggle his fingers. Maxwell frowned and grimly stated an apology before walking away. The rest of the crew followed after him back to the nearest camp. 

“You doing all right, vent?” Iron Bull asked as he moved closer to Dorian during their walk. Sera was up with Maxwell, talking to him about something. Whatever she said, it made the two of them laugh. More accurately, Sera cackled and Maxwell awkwardly chuckled. 

“I’m fine. I just need to get to camp, wrap my arm with a hot towel, and warm myself up with a drink,” Dorian said, glancing back to Iron Bull. He looked over him to check to see if the man was injured as well. Iron Bull had a few cuts and scrapes over his gray skin. If Iron Bull was close enough to swing his axe at you, you weren’t typically able to return the blow. 

“I think I’ll join you for that drink. It’ll be a long day tomorrow,” Iron Bull stated, referencing their journey back to Skyhold. Dorian was counting the minutes until he could be back in a bed or at the very least not have to worry about a scattered storm appearing directly above his head. Dorian was not looking forward to riding the horses back, but he would suffer through it. “Like what you see?” Dorian was confused by the question and by Iron Bull’s smirk until he realized that his gaze was not left unnoticed. Dorian should have known that he couldn’t hide anything from a spy. 

The implication of Iron Bull’s words made him scowl, “Don’t flatter yourself, you hulking brute.” He huffed indignantly as he kept his eyes forward. It wasn’t the first time that Iron Bull so blatantly flirted with him. Dorian loved to play with his wit when he flirted with the men he fancied and leave them wondering just what exactly he was doing with them. Iron Bull left nothing to the imagination.

Well, not nothing, per se.

Iron Bull chuckled. Dorian could almost see the deep rumbling in the pit of his stomach before it escaped his mouth. “You’ll come around eventually.” Dorian could quickly tell that it would soon become one of those “conversations” if he didn’t change the subject quickly.

“What do you think we have back at camp? It can’t be that great. Maxwell has never made alcohol a priority on provisions, but there’s always some wine or ale. Or what you Southerners call ale. If you would ask me, it’s a mixture of barley and horse piss. I’d rather pass on that,” Dorian said, his voice uncharacteristically quick as he tried to get Iron Bull’s mind on something else. He did not want to feel the twist in his stomach, a heavy mixture of awkward curiosity. 

It apparently had worked. Iron Bull snorted and shook his head, “Dainty thing, aren’t you? You certainly don’t act like you can set men on fire without blinking an eye.”

Ranged battle was easy. Dorian would rather cast damage to a creature he cannot directly see. He didn’t particularly like the few times that men have gotten too close to him and he had to bash their heads in with his staff. That was the thing about shooting fire at those a long distance away. You didn’t have to see twisted bone or brain matter up close. It had not happened often, but with each time, it became a little easier to see it. Dorian wasn’t sure if he wanted that or not. 

It did not take long before they reached camp. Once they saw one of the soldiers, Maxwell tilted his head back at Dorian and ordered the man to get a warm towel set up for him. Sera had bounded off into the nearby trees, her giggling unsettling Dorian. He was more worried of whatever she would throw at him from a tree than an ambush. Dorian made his way to one of the tents, shedding off the cloak at once. He squeezed the material to wring out the water. It was then that the tent flaps open and Maxwell walked in with the warm towel in his left hand and an open wine bottle in the other.

“I’m sorry about what happened back there,” Maxwell said, his eyes not quite meeting Dorian’s. He almost looked smaller as his eyes darted towards one of the cots. His fingers were playing with a thread on the towel. He set the wine bottle down. 

Dorian looked at him questionably, not quite recalling what he could have done that needed apologizing for. 

“For not leaving sooner,” Maxwell elaborated, finally looking at Dorian so he could meet his gaze.

“Oh! No worries. It’s fine,” Dorian said, indicating the arm which had already began to regain its color from the warmth of the tent. He looked around for a place to hang his cloak so it could dry and he set it on one of the poles in the tent. He almost jumped when he felt an almost painful heat around his arm. He looked down and realized that Maxwell had followed him and was in the process of wrapping the towel around his arm.

“I’m just always loved the ocean. I used to look out of my bedroom window at the Circle at Ostwick at night so I could see the ocean,” Maxwell said as he tied a knot in the towel to keep the material in place. He did not talk about his time in the Circle frequently. He talked about how the Circle was a good thing for mages and he would do what he could to reinstate the institution. However, Dorian rarely heard him talk about his own experience. Maxwell continued on, stepping back from Dorian, “It’s different when you’re right there at the water. I lost track of time.” 

The feeling in his arm came back immediately and Dorian was relieved to wiggle his fingers without trouble. “How old were you when you went to the Circle?” He asked, using Maxwell’s nostalgia to fuel his investigation. By this time, Maxwell had picked up the wine bottle and took a gulp. He then offered the bottle to Dorian. Civilized things like glasses did not belong in the wild so Dorian took the bottle and drank a few swallows. It tasted like sour berries, but it wasn’t rank. It would do. 

“Twelve,” Maxwell stated, his voice almost stiff, “I wish I went earlier.” His voice was so matter of fact that it threw Dorian off. Maxwell continued, “The Circles here take children as young as six. I started showing a lot earlier than that. Mother and Father tried to hide my magic, tried to hide me. It took a long time. I think they gave up. The Circle was where I felt at home.” He had a look in his green eyes that was a mixture of fondness and sadness. He appeared that he was struggling to smile, his lips dipping once more. Dorian handed him back the bottle. Maxwell took the bottle by the neck and took another swallow. 

Dorian placed his healing hand on Maxwell’s shoulder, watching as the man’s eyes flickered to his. “While I have my reservations about how this part of the world conducts the Circle’s business,” He began, hoping that he could comfort Maxwell, “and I hope that you do respect that your experience was not universal….” Maxwell’s eyes narrowed slightly and he opened his mouth to speak. Dorian quickly finished, “I can see how important it was to you. I hope that you can find a home here in the Inquisition.” 

“Have you found a home here? Even with your loyalty to the Imperium?” Maxwell asked, his voice dubious. 

Dorian let out a short laugh, amused at the idea of the South being his home in comparison to Tevinter, even if it was the Tevinter that he was not too proud of at the moment. “I would like to think that while the Imperium will always be my home, thanks to you and our motley crew, I stomach this place. I would like to do more than stomach it.” 

Maxwell did manage to crack a smile and he nodded. He paused before saying, a cheer in his voice. It did not sound genuine to Dorian’s ears, but he did not point it out. “Let’s go share this with Bull and Sera,” He said, raising the bottle. 

“If you think that I am drinking after the two of them, you are absolutely mad,” Dorian said, taking the bottle from Maxwell with a smile on his face. He brought the opening to his lips and drank as much as he could in a single breath. He gave the bottle back to Maxwell and frowned when bottle did not meet Maxwell’s hand, “Stop moving.” 

“You’re the one who is moving,” Maxwell laughed as he took the bottle out of Dorian’s hands. He inspected the already half empty bottle and shook his head, “Bull could drink the rest of this in one gulp.” He looked at Dorian with an unusual smirk on his face, “Let’s keep this between you and me, shall we?”


	4. Faith Healing

The sun was setting when Dorian felt himself grow restless in the library. One could only read so much on wildlife attracted to red lyrium before it all merged together. After stretching his legs, he could feel a sudden craving for something dark and finely aged. And for once, he was not referring to a man. Dorian did not like to think about how the thirst was coming more intensely and frequently than before. This life was stressful. Once everything calmed down, he would surely not feel the cravings as frequently. He was not going to indulge in this alone. How miserable that would be. He made his way down to the wine cellar, grabbing a bottle of wine that was more than a couple of decades old. Dorian inspected the label before deciding it would do. Skyhold would never have a decent selection. Maxwell did have a special stash of bottles deep in the cellar that he was saving for when they won.

If they didn’t win, it would be a shame for all that good alcohol to go to waste. Perhaps the Red Templars would enjoy drinking as they slowly lost their minds and their bodies.

It was known that if someone was searching for the Inquisitor you could find him either in the War Room or praying before the statue of Andraste. Because it was night, Dorian made his way to the gardens. It was not too populated so late. No one noticed Dorian walking by and swinging a bottle of wine by his side. 

As seriously as Maxwell spoke at first, he did not seem that he was willing to give up his new drinking habit. Dorian bit the inside of his cheek, thinking about using a better word than habit. That word implied that it was part of a lifestyle. But it had been a habit. He and Maxwell would share at the very least a bottle of wine between the two frequently when they were both at Skyhold together. Maxwell had returned not too long ago with Iron Bull, Cole and Vivienne from the Forbidden Oasis. Dorian had not had any extended conversation with the man. From what he had heard, Maxwell had gone to his chambers the moment that he returned to Skyhold and would not take visitors. Dorian did not pry as to why. 

Dorian had asked Josephine, hoping to be as casual as possible, if Maxwell was doing okay. Josephine had answered with a chipper affirmative that anyone could see through as a blatant lie. 

As he played with the semantics surrounding the word ‘habit’, he realized that he could hear the quiet whispers of someone praying nearby. He stood still with no intentions of listening in, but he could not help but hear snippets of words and phrases. It was Maxwell who was clearly praying but Dorian could also hear a female voice as well. Now that was curious. He walked to the door, taking note that it was not fully closed.

Well that was just irresponsible of them. Anyone could just come by and eavesdrop. Dorian’s eyes darted around him, realizing that he was more or less alone. Well, still. If he was close by, it would deter someone else from listening in. After internally justifying his actions, Dorian peaked into the room.

Maxwell was on his knees by the statue of Andraste. His head was bowed and he was rocking back and forth. His hands were clasped and pressed against his nose. Dorian could see that his knuckles were white. On his shoulders were the dark hands of Mother Giselle. She was standing and Maxwell’s height made it easy for her to put her hands on him without leaning down. She was facing down at him, her face writhing with the fretting concern only a matron would show. “Andraste, ease the burden of your Herald,” Mother Giselle said, her hands squeezing Maxwell’s shoulders. Her words, usually so soothing like a gentle teacher, was full of force. “Guide him through this path that he has been placed on. Walk with him. Bring him out of the darkness of his own mind and into the light of a new dawn.” Maxwell let out something that sounded like a choked sob. He was repeating prayers again and again, his words jumbling amongst each other.

Dorian pulled back from the sight, somewhat befuddled by what he was seeing. He felt as though he had walked in on something even more intimate than a sexual experience. He had never seen Maxwell like that. Maxwell had always seemed calm and collected save for that night that Dorian found him on the throne. Maxwell embraced the role as Inquisitor with open arms. He never complained for a moment about the obvious burden placed on his shoulders. Dorian put enough space between himself and the door so that he would not appear that he had been listening in. He sat down on a bench, his eyes on the bottle of wine. Well, Maxwell was definitely going to need a drink after that ordeal, whatever that was.

It was almost another ten minutes before the door fully opened. It was Mother Giselle who left first. The flames of nearby lit torches allowed Dorian to see the weariness in her eyes. She saw Dorian sitting on the bench and he could see her lips purse in disapproval. Dorian smirked at her, having seen that look of disappointment far too often in his lifetime. She never liked him and that was fine with him. He didn’t live off the validation of strangers. He raised the bottle in her direction and gave a rich laugh when he saw the scowl on her face. “Most inappropriate,” Giselle murmured under her breath in a huff, walking past him. Dorian chuckled, more than pleased to rile up the revered mother. 

Dorian’s attention was brought again to the door when Maxwell came out. His own eyes were bloodshot and red around the rims. He looked like he had not slept in days. Dorian’s eyes met his and Maxwell’s cheeks reddened. “Did you hear any of that?” Maxwell asked immediately as he walked over to him, sitting next to him on the bench. 

“No,” Dorian lied as his eyes ran up and down Maxwell’s form. He was well dressed and clean, but his face told a very different story. Was that facial hair that Maxwell was beginning to grow? “Are you alright?” He asked, his words hesitant to leave his lips.

Maxwell shook his head. His green eyes moved to the bottle of wine in Dorian’s hand. They stayed on the bottle as he continued on, “I…I don’t know if I told you this but I’m really scared of spiders.”

Dorian raised an eyebrow, “You haven’t…Did something happen in the Forbidden Oasis?”

Muscles tensed and the eyes still lingered eon the bottle. “We were in a cave. They started coming out of nowhere. I just froze. I didn’t even touch my staff. I stood there and watched. Iron Bull smashed most of them. It wasn’t long, I’m sure. It was maybe a couple of minutes. But…” He ran his fingers through his white hair, “Shit, when the fight was over I could finally hear myself. Dorian, I was breathing like crazy. My heart was racing and I could barely move. I felt like I had been running for miles.” He looked distressed to even go over the memory. His hand went to his chest and he gripped at his shirt. His breathing had started to quicken. “I came back to Skyhold and I…It was like my actual life was being pulled from me. I could not leave my bed even if I wanted to…I could not figure out what was happening and I knew that I needed to get out.” 

At once, Dorian let the wine bottle sit on the floor. He used his free hands to take Maxwell’s. He tried to figure out a way to help him. “You have to calm down. You’re going to work yourself up,” Dorian said. Maxwell’s eyes met his with a surprising amount of scorn as if he was trying to convey that Dorian was not helping and that he did not any further assistance. Dorian let go of his hands, feeling self-conscious at his failed attempt. 

“It’s not the first time that it’s happened. Vivienne says that it’s the result of stress and fear. I’ve had four since the explosion at the Conclave. Mother Giselle says that I’m being tested and I need to put more faith into Andraste and the Maker….” Maxwell paused before picking the wine bottle up. He started to ramble, leaning against the arm of the bench. “She’s right, though…” His eyes met Dorian’s again as he raised his legs, nonverbally questioning if he could put them in Dorian’s lap. The altus was more than delighted that they had reached that level of comradery and nodded. Maxwell moved his legs into Dorian’s lap.

The two of them had shared a physically closer relationship since they began drinking together. It was not all of what Dorian wanted, but it was what he was going to accept for the time being. It was not too much considering how far they had to go to have the relationship that Dorian was beginning to dare to hope for. What prevented him from moving forward was too very annoying, unwanted variables. Maxwell was technically in a relationship with Josephine and Dorian did not know if he could look past what Maxwell had done to Alexius.

“I need strength and I’m Andraste’s Herald. I’ve wavered in some way and she’s trying to speak to me, you know? She’s sending me a message in her own way,” Maxwell said as he removed the cork from the wine bottle. Dorian watched as he took a swallow from the bottle and offered it to Dorian. It was not how he pictured spending his evening .He preferred glasses at the very least. This would do, though. He took the wine bottle.

“Should you be drinking then?” Dorian asked as he took a gulp of his own. He watched as Maxwell shrugged his shoulders, seemingly not too concerned with the activities they were involving themselves in now.

“Mother Giselle says I shouldn’t but…I don’t get like that when I’m drinking. I just want a night of peace,” Maxwell said as he rested his hands on his thighs. 

There was a comfortable silence between the two. And like all things, it was Dorian who was the one who shattered any good thing that he came across.

“Does Josephine know about them?” Dorian asked, his own inquisitiveness getting to the better of him. 

Maxwell answered instantly, leaning over to take the bottle of wine from Dorian, “No. I don’t need to tell her another reason why she should run for the hills. I’d like to keep her around for a while.” He brought it to his lips, his eyes closed. “Bad enough that Vivienne saw it. She gave one of her ‘disappointed mother’ talks to me,” Maxwell said as he handed the bottle back to Dorian. 

Dorian laughed at the image of Vivienne and her perpetual distain for everyone around her. “Did she?” He asked. After all, he could recognize a deflection when he saw it. The bottle is half empty by this point.

The white haired mage straightened up, a smirk on his face. “Now my dear,” Maxwell began, increasing the pitch of his voice and attempting to pull off Vivienne’s high born accent, “We must not be so common as to show our fears over petty things.” Maxwell gave a wave of his hand as he slumped back down, the smile now not meeting his eyes, “Or something like that. I don’t know. She sounded like she was talking to me from down in a cave somewhere. I don’t remember too much of that day.”

Green eyes met brown and that comfortable silence returned. Dorian was ever so tempted to run his fingers through that white hair. He thought about how his fingers would move to his cheek and how he would tease him about the stubble. Dorian realized that his fingers were almost twitching as they gripped the bottle of wine. If he was drinking, then he wasn’t touching.


	5. Hawke I

_Dorian felt as though a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He was happy. He was home. Spices scented the dry air around him and there was someone’s hand in his. He looked at Maxwell who was next to him. The two were walking through the public square of Minrathous with no care in the world who knew and who saw. It was because that no one could do a thing about this display of affection. He had brought his heart home._

_Hmmm, that was odd. Now what were they doing here?_

_Maxwell walked with an air of confidence and he was laughing with every word he said. The bright sun made his eyes vibrant. The pink flesh of his lips was just so kissable. How could Dorian resist? His lips brushed against Maxwell’s and he smiled. He wrapped his arm around his lover’s waist. Maxwell returned the movement and whispered soft sweet nothings into Dorian’s ear. He promised to never leave him. They were like any young couple in love. Finally together forever._

_This wasn’t real._

Dorian woke up with a start, sitting up instantly in his bed. He felt cold and clammy with sweat. Nimble dark fingers moved through wet black locks. What was wrong with him? He did not have pining dreams about unobtainable objects of affection. Or at least, he thought he was over that phase in his life. And here he was, his chest aching at the slip of a dream he knew could never come true. If by some divine intervention he would be able to seduce Maxwell for an extended period of time, how would he be able to convince the man to come home with him? Furthermore, when would his homeland ever accept what they were? It was beneath a man of his standing to yearn for things that could never be.

Where did this dream come from? Dorian quickly answered himself. Maxwell and Josephine were officially a couple. Maxwell jovially relayed the story to Dorian last night over glasses of some Antivan alcohol. He told the story of how Leliana more or less threatened him if he hurt Josephine or led her on. His eyes twinkled with the joy of someone who had the world in their hand, if only for a moment. 

He needed a drink.

He looked up from his blankets, annoyed at the rough Southern fabric. Could the Inquisition not spare any money for decent material? It was no better than the cots he was made to sleep in when they were on the road. It was then that he saw that it as dawn. The sky was illuminated with shades of indigo, orange and pink. The sun was moving over the mountain top, giving the snow its own illuminating color.

It was early in the morning and he needed a drink. That was not a good sign.

Dorian threw the blankets off his body and got out of the bed. There was no point in lying in damp sheets and attempting to go back to sleep. He would just further torment himself. He needed to get his mind off the craving and get his hands busy, despite how early it was. With being on missions as the obvious exception, Dorian could not remember ever being up at such at such an hour.

If Dorian had to make an educated guess, his mother started off drinking in the morning and would drink throughout the day and into the night if she did not manage to pass out by sunset. On a good day, she would wait until after noon before drinking. Good days only came when his father was out of the house. He had never seen two people despise each other as much as his mother and father. From an early age, he retreated into himself whenever he heard the passive aggressive barbs the two exchanged. When he was old enough to start returning the insults, it was easy for the two of them to team up against him. It was interesting to be one thing they had in common. 

Was it really such a surprise when he started looking for attention and affection elsewhere? He only received a touch of praise from his father when he was exceling at some task or another. He just wanted someone to make him feel good without having to do anything for it. He wanted unconditional and that was frankly too much to ask.

When he was bathed, groomed and dressed, Dorian left his bedroom. Skyhold was very quiet. He would not expect anything less. He made his way to the library, relying on procedural memory as he tried to think about anything rather than the sweet taste of wine on his lips. He expected to be able to sit down and pull out a book.

He did not expect someone to be in his chair and to have their feet propped up on the window sill.

“Oh…Hawke, is it?” Dorian asked, as though he had any confusion on who precisely was in his space. 

Angel Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall and defender of mages, looked up from a book that Dorian recognized as a book on necromancy. Dark blue eyes, the color of the sky just before nightfall, glanced over at him. Blonde hair brushed over those blue eyes and a light skinned hand moved the bangs out of his face. As he did so, Dorian could see for a moment a jagged scar that ran from the center of the palm of his hand up his arm and hid under the fabric wrapped around his arm.

“You’re Dorian, the Tevinter mage,” Hawke recognized. He carelessly tossed the book on one of the tables without closing it. Dorian kept himself from saying anything as he watched the book hit the table and slide almost to the edge. The pages wrinkled and he kept himself from immediately going to pick up the book that was previously in flawless condition. At this point, Hawke pulled his legs back and stood up, commenting, “I apologize. No one is usually in here this early.”

Dorian had the pleasure of meeting Hawke two times and each time he was not able to have a conversation for more than a few minutes. He had heard stories about the charming human who rose through the ranks of Kirkwall society. He kept interesting company, just as Maxwell has. He was there when the Chantry imploded and when the rebellion started. The Inquisition was more than fortunate to have him as an ally.

“I’m not usually up this early,” Dorian explained, feeling uneasy. He had not expected to speak to anyone and there was a practical stranger standing in front of him. Dorian was not even aware that Hawke was in Skyhold. 

“Is that book yours? I recognized the language written in the margins. It’s what they speak in the Imperium, isn’t it?” Hawke asked. There was no sparkle in his eyes and no typical twist of a smile. He was serious and was getting straight to the point. What bothered Dorian was that he felt like he was about to be on the receiving end of an intense interrogation. 

“It is,” Dorian answered, finding no reason to lie. “I practice several spells including death siphons,” He continued, knowing that as a mage, even an informally educated one, Hawke would understand what properly done necromancy looked like.

“Keep it that way,” Hawke remarked after a moment. He walked past Dorian, seemingly satisfied with how the conversation went. 

Dorian’s mouth opened and he tried to quickly come up with a retort or at least a way to question what business it was of Hawke’s. But nothing came out. He watched as the man walked down the stairwell. He then heard Hawke cheerfully greet someone in what sounded like Dalish. Solas returned the greeting with a tone that indicated that he was pleasantly surprised. Of course that man would be up. 

Dorian barely knew Hawke. Who was he to criticize his choice in specialization? Dorian’s lips pursued and he muttered under his breath before picking up his book. He straightened the edges of the bent pages before his eye caught on what Hawke was reading before Dorian interrupted him. Any comprehensive, magical tome has sections that go over the theoretical possibilities. There were hypothetical spells and rituals. More often than not, the sections were academic. The only way to test the theories in the tome was to use experimental and wild magic. Hawke was reading up on such a section. Dorian’s eyes skimmed over the words and realized that Hawke was reading about a spell on resurrection fueled by blood magic.

Dorian scoffed before smoothing out the pages off more. He shut the book and put it back on the shelf. Just because he was from Tevinter did not mean that he was going to put any of this nonsense into practice. Shouldn’t Hawke know better than that? They were little more than perfect strangers, but from what Varric had said, Dorian thought that Hawke accepted everyone around him. Hawke was in a relationship with a Dalish former blood mage. What was it about Dorian that caused everyone around him to suspect him of doing something malicious? 

Tired and decidedly annoyed, Dorian sat down in his chair and procedural memory took over again as his hand reached under the chair to pull out a small bottle of dark whiskey. He opened the half empty bottle and brought the bottle to his lips. He could feel the liquid against his flesh and he almost opened his mouth.

“It won’t help. You know it won’t help.”

“Cole!” Dorian snapped as he set the bottle down on the table, watching the liquid slosh in the bottle. Cole was crouched down on the table, looking at the bottle with curiosity. He winced at the loud voice.

“Does it matter that the sun is going up and not going down? Why does it matter?” Cole asked with his wide eyed curiosity. He sat down on the table, swinging his long, skinny legs.

“It’s just….I don’t have to explain anything to you. I’m not doing it,” Dorian muttered as he screwed the top back on the bottle of whiskey and put it under the chair once more. He would take a sip once Cole left him alone.

Cole did not look convinced. He turned his gaze in the direction of the stairwell and said, his voice sadder than usual, “Stitches. I can’t stand to see them anymore. She’s not her but it is her. Her face, but it’s not her. Mother, what did he do to you? What did we do to you? ” He paused before bowing his head, “I should help.”

“Yes, go help someone else,” Dorian said, not paying attention to what Cole was rambling on about now. The spirit was picking up on someone else’s thoughts and that meant he may go away soon. Dorian wanted to get rid of the young man so he could take a shot in peace. Cole disappeared, but only after giving Dorian a concerned look. 

Relieved, Dorian moved his hand back under the chair only to feel the floor instead of the glass of the whiskey bottle. “Kaffas, Cole,” He swore. He wanted to find him and throttle him. Why did he keep trying to insert himself into someone else’s business all of the damn time?

It then hit him harder than any sword or any spell. He told himself not to drink early. He had told himself that he was not going to be like Mother, under no circumstances. He was already going down a path that he was not particularly proud of. He was at a line in the sand that he told himself he would not cross. Some would say it was arbitrary. For Dorian, it meant that he was only becoming more and more like his parents. He also knew that it would not stop there. Dorian was going cross that line over a damn dream and a man insulting him. What was he going to do if Maker forbid someone in the Inner Circle was killed or if this war was lost? 

What if something happened to Maxwell?

His fingers reached again for a bottle that wasn’t there and he was relieved this time rather than angry.

Cole helped him. Dorian should apologize.

“It’s okay, Dorian….”

“COLE!”


	6. Desert Thirst

A line that Dorian would never cross was drinking before going off to fight in a battle. His mind needed to be completely free of any disinhibition. Not to mention that it was negligent. One should not be playing with fire while drunk. 

As the party walked through the Western Approach, Dorian wanted nothing more than to knock back a drink. Before he had found himself wrapped up in the Inquisition, he never felt the craving before nightfall unless there was emotional turmoil inside him. His dark eyes kept glancing at the sun as though it had moved the last time he checked. He was making himself wait until night and he was allotting himself only a small amount of alcohol once they reached camp. At first, he had been grateful that Maxwell had started ordering bottles of wine to be sent to the camps. Now, he was not sure how ask the man to stop. Rationally, he knew that he would not be tempted as much if he didn’t have alcohol that he liked at his disposal. But he couldn’t come out and say that.

Dorian had not told anyone what he was doing. It was shameful to admit that he couldn’t control his need for sweet wine and burning whiskey. He was only grateful that he was taking control when he was. He knew that he was dangerously close to throwing himself down a deeper hole. It was difficult, especially when he still drank with Maxwell most nights. If he were a smarter man, or more appropriately a man that was not infatuated, he would limit those nights. Unfortunately for Dorian, the only time he had Maxwell’s individual attention was when both sets of lips were loose. Dorian often wondered if he could taste the honeyed wine on Maxwell’s lips.

“Hey, Vent, you doing alright?” 

Iron Bull had fallen back to talk to Dorian. The mage realized that he had separated himself from the group. He looked over to Maxwell and Vivienne who were a few yards ahead of them. “I’m fine,” Dorian said as he looked back to Iron Bull. It was not as though Dorian typically kept a happy go lucky look on his face, but he imagined that he looked like a wild animal ready to snap. He never had particularly good patience to begin with. 

“You can usually lie better than that, Dorian,” Iron Bull said. Despite the words he used, he did not look disappointed. He looked concerned. 

“It’s just a headache,” Dorian said, not truly lying. He knew that it was attached to the current problem he was having now, but he wasn’t about to talk about it to anyone, much less Iron Bull who could more than likely drink a barrel every night and still manage to keep his wits about him. 

Iron Bull still did not look convinced. That one eye stared at him and Dorian had the feeling that the ghost of his missing eye was glowering at him from the socket. He had to throw the man a bone if he had any hope of getting him off his back.

“It’s just….worried about Maxwell,” Dorian stated, putting together the saddest excuse of a sentence he had ever uttered. Iron Bull’s one eye widened slightly before turning to its normal size. 

“Ah, you’re jealous about Josephine,” Iron Bull stated as though he figured out a great mystery.

Dorian was going to play the part of the friend that was concerned about his dear companion and the weight of the world on his shoulders. But Iron Bull brought up a more accurate concern of his and he could feel the blood rush to his face. 

He had looked out of his window enough times to learn not to do it anymore if he did not want to risk seeing Maxwell in the courtyard with Josephine. Dorian could not help but glare daggers at her when she was not directing looking at him. It had nothing to do with her personally. He would dislike anything that was taking what he wanted. Josephine did not deserve his spite, but Dorian could not bring himself to care. He was having a hard time thinking about others lately, especially as he began to limit his alcohol.

“I’m not jealous,” Dorian said, all the while hoping that Maxwell’s attraction to pretty things with pretty jewelry went further than the ambassador. He quickly changed the course of the conversation, “He told me about what happened at that cave in the Forbidden Oasis.”

Iron Bull glanced over at Maxwell and back to Dorian. He shifted his large shoulders and Dorian’s eyes flickered at the muscle and at the way that his gray skin almost glistened in the powerful sun. “Yeah, that was a bit….weird,” He said as he raised his arm, rubbing the back of his neck. “Made him look like a green private on his first day. He couldn’t do something like that as a soldier under the Qun. He’d get his ass reeducated or, worse, transferred to another job,” He continued. 

Before Iron Bull could say anything more, Maxwell turned around to look at him and Dorian. The mage was fearful that he had overheard the conversation. Instead, Maxwell gave a tilt of his head. Trouble was approaching.

It was a quillback, nothing of explicit danger. It was no match for three mages and a warrior that could probably break it in half if it weren’t for the spears sticking out of its skin. Dorian had heard Vivienne yell out in pain and surprise, which was strange because she was nowhere near the quillback and therefore could not be hurt by it. He quickly glanced to see if the fighting attracted more danger but nothing else was there.

It was after the beast lay dead that Dorian discovered the reason why she had cried out.

“Vivienne, I’m so sorry,” Maxwell said with the fear of a child that hurt something or someone dear to him. He and Vivienne were close together, but his voice was loud enough for Dorian to hear. He could not help but eavesdrop. 

“My dear, stop babbling, it’s unbecoming to you,” Vivienne tutted and at this point Dorian could catch Vivienne’s healing hand running over her arm and the material of the robe stitching back together. 

“I-I-I-I don’t know what happened,” Maxwell stumbled on, ignoring Vivienne’s request for him to quiet down. “I just…I don’t do this. I don’t hit people by accident.”

He was rambling far worse than the time that he had hit Dorian. Misfire was supposed to be a flaw that was snuffed out when mages were apprentices. Hitting a target was one of the first and most crucial lessons whether you were healing something or hurting something. This was questionable behavior of an experienced mage.

“By pure chance, you are bound to hit something no matter your skill. We are never truly perfect, my dear,” Vivienne began, her musical voice seeming to ease Maxwell’s agitation. Dorian watched as the muscles in his face relaxed.

“Though…it does not mean that we cannot continue to strive for it,” Vivienne ended, spinning on her heels so she could lead the group back to their original destination. Dorian watched as Maxwell’s jaw clenched at the comment. He ignored Iron Bull when he came over to talk. He merely followed after Vivienne and stuck his hand in his robes to pull out his pouch of water. He took a quick sip and shoved it back inside. 

“That highborn Tevinter breeding didn’t teach you not to stare?” Maxwell asked with malice in his voice. It was then that Dorian realized he had been caught and he immediately turned his head, following after Vivienne. 

“Did the Ostwick Circle not teach you how to hit a target?” Dorian snapped back. His agitation with the world around him was coming on quicker than usual. And his sluggish mind could not come up with a more eloquent and biting remark. 

Maxwell seemed to be in just a foul a mood as Dorian was. When he typically would hold his tongue, Maxwell now delivered another retort, as though he wanted to have the last word, “They must have been busy teaching us other ways to solve our problems rather than blood magic.”

Dorian stopped in his tracks, the words hitting far too close to home. He turned to face Maxwell and the two glared at each other as though the nights alone meant absolutely nothing anymore. He was reminded of precisely why he didn’t deal with Maxwell when he was sober. They didn’t like each other. Maxwell was a holier than thou fool and Dorian was either what he hated or what he wanted to be. Dorian had not figured out which one it was.

Why was he like this? Why was Dorian insistent on going after men that did not like him, much less return the feelings?

Maybe it meant that he would not have to act on those feelings and deal with the fallout.

“Oh really?” Dorian asked, making his voice light as he started to walk again. “That’s where you learned that praying and drinking make everything go away? Maybe you should try blood magic.”

Dorian didn’t know that Maxwell had pulled his staff off his back and had fire in his eyes. Vivienne did. Before Maxwell could cast a spell or hit the altus over the head (Vivienne was not sure which), she interrupted, her voice chipped with impatience, “Will you two act like you’re not catty apprentices?” Maxwell lowered his staff and put it back into place, still staring Dorian down as he took another sip from his water pouch. 

“Fools,” Vivienne muttered. Iron Bull had kept a stone face throughout the exchange, merely taking notes for any later interactions. The Maxwell he knew, the Maxwell he met on the Storm Coast, would not have taken Dorian’s bait or let it escalate that far. He had his suspicions, but he was not about to act on them just yet. 

Dorian let Vivienne’s insult roll of his back. He was secure in his friendship with Vivienne. The two were not going to stop discussing politics or fashion just because of this incident. Maxwell, on the other hand, was blushing with embarrassment and a look of panic flashed through his eyes. 

Still unsatisfied with how the conversation left off, Dorian sneered at Maxwell and delivered another verbal attack, “Corypheus would be pleased to know that he could easily disarm you with an insult.” 

Maxwell turned to look at Dorian and opened his mouth to respond. He glanced back to Vivienne and closed his mouth. His cheeks reddened and he moved his eyes downcast. 

Getting the last word was not as satisfying as Dorian thought it was going to be. There was an awkward silence between the two as they walked through the sand and the dry air. The whistling of the wind was the only indication that Dorian had not lost his hearing. 

It was not long before Dorian felt a nudge on his shoulder. He turned to see that Maxwell had taken out the water pouch and appeared to be offering it to Dorian. Surprised and perplexed by this olive branch so to speak, Dorian raised his eyebrow. He had one of his own after all. But he took it anyway, moving his lips to the opening to take a drink.

What he was not expecting was a sudden burn in his mouth. Dorian spat out the liquid, dropping the water pouch as a result of his shock. He heard Maxwell swear as he all but lunged forward to catch the pouch before it hit the ground.

“That wasn’t water,” Dorian said. He realized what it was once the initial surprise was over. That was whiskey. What in Andraste’s name was Maxwell doing drinking while they were fighting? His dark eyes looked over at Maxwell who had pocketed the water pouch. Maxwell was no longer blushing. He was scowling as he glared out of the corners of his eyes.

“I didn’t say it was. Why did you think I offered water to you?” Maxwell muttered, moving from Dorian’s side to Iron Bull, striking up a conversation almost immediately.

This was not good.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading


End file.
